Crux Itineris
by Wednesday's Due
Summary: The battle is over and the war as yet to begin, a small society of remaining Order members wait for their time to strike, while a presumed dead Hermione Granger wanders the streets without a wand and without direction. SSHGRL
1. Chapter 1

**Crux Itineris**

_Chapter One: Internal and External_

Wednesday's Due

Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley stood on the balcony of the Potter Estate, staring out at the sea of green grass that grew near every lake and pond that littered the grounds of the magnificent castle.

Ron set his hands down on the railing and lowered his head so that his shoulder-length, bronze hair fell down and shadowed his face.

"It's difficult, eh?" Harry said on his right, his breath coming out in a thin smoke, as the day grew cold.

"Those arseholes that call themselves Death Eaters are getting harder to escape and hide from," Ron muttered darkly, glancing up toward his friend.

"Snape said last night that he can give us a new place of shelter," Harry retorted.

"How do we know that we can trust the slimy git?" Ron asked, lifting his head up.

"Because he helped us in battle, and he stayed with us when we lost," Harry whispered.

Ron dropped his head once more as silence swept over the balcony.

Bill, Ginny, Ron, Fred, Molly, Tonks, Harry, Remus, Minerva, Severus, Neville, and Padma were all that were left.

The eleven Order members seated themselves around a table in the dining hall of Harry's protected (thought not enough) and recently bought (before his supposed demise) manor, some clutching steaming mugs of tea made by Ginny who appeared hasty, and some silently whispering amongst each other, as if afraid to increase their voices to a normal room level.

Harry sat at the end of the table, tracing the brim of his cup with a slender and pale finger, catching some of the tea inside and licking off the liquid mutely. He glanced toward Lupin and Snape, both of whom were sitting beside each other, near Bill and Minerva's end of the table. Snape looked displeased with the seating arrangement, but he did not say anything.

His eyes slid along those who had survived the battle, all possessing internal and external wounds that could not be healed. Neville had lost a leg, leaving only a stump where his knee was supposed to be, due to a rather gruesome curse from Bellatrix Lestrange. Padma had lost her twin sister, as Fred had lost his twin brother, and (oddly enough for one whom has not witnessed the war at all) it was a rarity for either of them to smile. And Molly had suffered the loss of her husband and three children. The rest of them had all lived through equally traumatizing and frightening experiences; some that made Harry mentally shudder with grief.

The "Boy-Who-Lived"'s scars were the worst of all. A type of indent had pushed itself into his shoulder blade, causing anyone who saw his bare back to grimace. His eyes had dulled to a blackish-green, his right-hand pinky was gone, and he had lost his best friend and a war that had put the wizarding world into an eternity of depression.

Hermione Granger. Her death (along with Dumbledore's) had left the remaining Order in a state of shock and absolute melancholy.

They had not found her body, but from what they learned from the Death Eaters, she was as good as gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: It's been a long time, I know, and I had kept this chapter for many months, thinking it unfinished, but I think it's ready to be released to the "public". I hope this measures up to the first chapter, and that you all enjoy it._

Chapter Two: Stone Pillow 

The cement beneath her faded and torn leather boots cracked and rumbled under the pressure of her weight and she grabbed a pole to keep balance. The low, thunder-like sound ceased, and she continued on, left hand still clutching her own bottle of vodka. 'Twas the only thing that kept her sane (for lack of a better word) and made her feel proud. The only item she had bought, with her own money, for seven years.

She was clad in jeans that were originally made for someone twice her size, a plain leather belt that hung off her slender waist limply, a large black t-shirt, a long brown trenchcoat, and her boots. Her shoulder-length, messy, oily and straight black hair fell into her face, masking the bright brown eyes that had dimmed considerably over the years.

For anyone who met the mysterious woman, they wouldn't be able to recognize her for the person she once was. The know-it-all, bookworm, one-third of the famous trio, and Harry Potter's dearest best friend. But in some odd way, the Hermione Granger part of her soul seemed to have shriveled up and died.

To all who eyed her suspiciously (and to herself) she was the nameless young woman that had lost her sanity and had taken to wandering the streets without a home as Voldemort slowly took power.

She had concealed her appearance before her wand had been taken away, and she had escaped when the Death Eaters had captured her. But she no longer knew where she was looking, she was lost.

The woman took a seat on a bench in central London, eyeing the abnormally dead streets with aged auburn eyes, reaching inside the pocket of her trenchcoat and removing an old blue and silver Ravenclaw house scarf. She wrapped it around her pale and unhealthily slim neck with fragile hands, trembling in the frosty winter morning.

She fingered her precious vodka bottle, the contents swishing and splashing against the clear glass sides, as she watched a familiar young man pass by with an older bloke at his side.

Hermione lowered her eyes, hoping to not attract their attention, for she had suffered enough abuse while living on the dreary streets of muggle London. It was surprising that she had even lived this long without totally losing it, but who was to say she was still sane?

As proof, her life had slowly turned itself into a melancholy event that lasted an eternity. In several desperate attempts to make money for food she had allowed various men to pay her for a decent shag, and it had pained her so. Everytime she would act like a prostitute her self-respect level would lower and the feeling that she was getting herself raped at any possible moment rose.

The young woman looked at the now vacant road and sighed, uncorking her bottle of vodka and pouring the liquid down her throat without hesitation. Every day lasted forever, and this one was no exception.

Noting that the bottle was currently half-empty, she tucked it away in the folds of her coat and stood up, wondering what vacant building she would sleep in that night for the day was growing dim. With shivering intake of breath, Hermione climbed over the bench into an aged garden and through a small bunch of pine trees and out of the park. There was a building that looked uneasily close to a pile of ruins, but she paid that no mind as she climbed through a broken window, ignoring the wounds that she inflicted on her own flat stomach from the jagged and broken glass.

The inside looked eery, with its moth-eaten furniture and dust-covered wooden floors, but she could not raise her nose to this, for she was only thankful for a vacant place to spend her night. Hermione slowly crept into the empty entrance hall and climbed up the creaking steps, clutching the banister so tightly that her knuckles turned paper white.

She entered the nearest room and smiled faintly to see an old bed in the corner. She made her way over to it, deposited her coat onto a nearby armchair and climbed beneath the dusty covers, snuggling into the pillow and sneezing when rousing any particles of dust.

It wasn't very rare for someone to find a furnished but uninhabited house in London, for the Death Eaters had gone on a killing spree after Voldemort defeated Harry. But others had always claimed the houses before she could and now she was thankful.

The only unwritten rule for this was that all would have to exit the property at dawn, for Death Eaters had a tendency to go on a daily hunt in London for surviving muggles.

Remus' eyes lingered on a crack in the wall as he listened to Harry speak. The dent was growing bigger and bigger every week that they entered the room for meetings, and he had a feeling that a rat would be able to get through soon. He shuddered at the thought, memories roving to Peter Pettrigrew.

Severus, meanwhile, had taken to glaring at each person occupying the long table, the only decent way he could spend his time until that blasted Order meeting ended.

Harry stood, finalising his speech with a solemn nod toward his fellow Order members. He impassively made to exit the room, allowing an equally sullen Ginny to wrap a frail arm around him in an attempt at consoling the boy that had lost hope.

Severus gave a bitter snort and stood, letting the feet of his old chair scrape against the dying planks of the floor. The others followed his example and exited, whispering amongst themselves, and glancing toward Remus who remained seated and silent.

He looked lost in thought, pondering something that stayed a mystery to the rest. But Severus spared no extra attention, he had better things to do than worry about an old werewolf that couldn't pay attention to his surroundings.

He exited the room, feeling those thick glossy strands of onyx hair falling in his face and covering those thought-burden black eyes. The wooden floors creaked in protest as he approached his temporary quarters, and set his pale hand on the rusting doorknob. He did not cringe when his hands were greeted by the icy iron of the handle, but only turned it and entered the dusty and pitch black room with an impassive expression.

Severus often wondered what the rest of his pathetic life would have been like, had they won the war. Yet, those thoughts always ended abruptly, because he did not want to worry over what could have happened, he was much more needed in reality.

A lot of people in the manor had their minds focused on those who lost their lives, wishing they were back. Though he would never admit it, he missed those imbeciles that had graced his classroom as well. But this was not important, and they certainly didn't need Harry Potter sulking about and being selfish when he had people to save. Yes, the majority of the light side was gone, but he still had a prophecy to fulfill, and lives to complete once more.

Severus Snape made sure to remind the remaining Order this, tell them with his sarcastic words and cruel eyes that they would do best not to pity themselves, because at least they weren't dead... no matter how much all of them wished that that were true at this depressing time.

He sat on the four-poster bed, the mattress creaking in protest at the sudden weight, but he stared at the wall before him, chin set upon his fist as he wondered why they even continued to live, it was mentioned very much, in hush conversations, that all hope was lost. But, something in the back of his head told him that he was acting like an arse and should just shut up.

That voice sounded too disturbingly like Dumbledore (who never cursed, unless it was in Latin and he was holding a wand) and Severus simply couldn't ignore it.

The Death Eaters had arrived early that morning, and Hermione found herself sneaking out of the second story window, closing her eyes as she released her grip on the pane of the window and fell to the hard ground below, convinced she had at least broken an ankle. She flexed her fingers momentarily, before sinking her nails into the earth below her. Hermione breathed in deeply through her nostrils, before standing and heading out, to Diagon Alley, perhaps, where she could possibly get some more money.

She hated when funds became low for her, it had been years since she had last touched a galleon, because stealing had become difficult, and buying alcohol just as much.

Running a hand through her greasy hair, Hermione ran out of the yard and into the streets, observing her surroundings before making a break for the Leaky Cauldron. It was always nice to at least see Tom.

She stopped outside the barely visible pub, eyeing the broken windows of the music store nearby and clenching her fists.

Hermione hesitated before entering, her steps soft and barely audible as she crossed the threshold and into the dodgy buvette. There was the sound of laughter from a corner, obnoxious and loud voices conversing about something she did not give a bloody damn about. Lifting her small nose into the dingy air, Hermione made her way toward the bar, where Tom had just set down a rather filthy glass, filled to the top with scotch and ice cubes.

"Andie," Tom exclaimed when he noticed her, using the name she had given herself while on the streets. Though it wasn't really needed, she was ignored anyway unless someone was shagging her into traumatization and tears. "Would you like a whiskey, that vodka you've been carrying around has to have emptied itself somehow."

"It's halfway full, besides, you know I can't afford that," Hermione retorted, her voice barely a whisper and scratchy as if she had the flu, which she probably did.

"It'll be on me, I've had a lot of business today anyhow," Tom replied, turning around and grabbing a small glass, which he filled to the brim with firewhiskey. As the innkeeper set the drink before her, he frowned, observing her ragged features. "You okay, Andie?"

"I am just fine, Tom. I probably just look messier than usual, but believe me, it'll get worse," Hermione replied with a grim smile, before taking a seat on the nearest barstool and gulping down the alcohol, wincing as it burned her throat. "Strong."

"Sure is, strongest stuff ever created, I presume," Tom returned before greeting his next customer and preparing another glass.

"Ah, an old friend," a large hand set itself on her shoulder, and she winced.

"Hello," she whispered, turning slowly until her brown eyes met gray.

"Andie Solice, I expected you to arrive. Looking for clients?" Draco Malfoy inquired lightly, his meaning obvious to the frightened young woman.

"I suppose, funds are getting low," she sighed, trying not to look too pathetic in front of her former classmate.

"A very good friend of mine has been wanting to meet you, in person, of course," Malfoy stated, motioning to another man behind him who looked too shy to have been a Death Eater. "Theodore Nott, has some... ahem, _tension_ in need of being relieved."

The pale young man flinched under the cold gaze of his partner, nodding a bit uncomfortably. Malfoy, who was only a tad broader than the lanky bloke, smirked evilly at the two. Tom watched the exchange in silence, unconsciously overfilling the glass he held with wine.

"Come along then, how much will you be paying?" Hermione queried, standing up and gulping down the rest of her drink before slamming it back onto the countertop.

"Ten sickles," Malfoy answered, looking smug.

"Y-yes," Theodore stammered. Hermione, feeling suddenly ill, took his arm relcutantly and pulled him along with her upstairs, as Malfoy left the amount for the room in front of Tom before he exited onto the streets of muggle London.

They entered the old and barely furnished room, Hermione removing her coat when Theodore suddenly grabbed her face and attacked her lips with passion, almost desperation, clinging to her before breaking the kiss and attacking her neck. He nibbled on any spot he could get a hold of as Hermione stood absolutely still, unsure of how to respond.

"Gods," he groaned, removing every article of his and her clothing before directing her toward the fragile bed and throwing her onto it, his lips on hers once more as he licked her bottom lip, seeking entrance forcibly.

She obliged and allowed him to ravish her mouth, wondering what Harry and Ron would think of her if they were still alive.

Hermione sat outside a destroyed Flourish and Blott's, leaning her head against the only standing wall of the former establishment, playing with the pocket of her coat and watching Death Eaters pass, laughing cruelly about one thing or another. She sighed deeply, fingers lingering on a photograph from the Quibbler she had found years ago, crumpled up in a fireplace and almost burnt completely. She slowly removed it from her pocket and eyed the two young men that had stood beside her, laughing and unaware of their horrible fate.

The article title read: _Boy-Who-Lived Proved Sane._

She giggled softly at the absurdity, before growing serious and stashing the precious piece of parchment into her pocket, not wanting to be caught with a memory of the hated Harry Potter.


End file.
